So this a classic one. Bff Dana is about ready to pop with baby #2,
Cunty Kozy Kabbalah Silver. She's scheduled for a c-section @ Mt. Sinai—my second home—tomorrow. Well, we've all been thinking that she's going to go in early b/c she's huge, swollen, having Braxton Hicks contractions and has been feeling like shit since Friday. Plus, Friday night I had a dream she went in early, and often I have premonitory dreams.

So yesterday I began calling her on my way to lunch at Bal Harbour with my dad's cousins, around 12:30. Actually I texted her before that too. Still hadn't heard from her after a two-hour lunch. On the way home I called her hubby, her cell, her home—no answer anywhere. Next I
called her brother Daryl and asked him if he'd heard from her. He'd talked to her in the a.m. and said all was kosher then. D. is a doctor and didn't seem worried, so I let it drop for a while. About two hours later, I was sitting at my pool and still hadn't heard from her. Dana's absentminded on good days, so I didn't think it would be out of the ordinary if she went in and somehow didn't manage to call. So after about four hours of no communication—we usually speak several times a day—I called Mt. Sinai directly.
"Has Dana Silver checked in yet?"
"Not yet but I see that she's pre-registered."
Ok, so I relaxed a little. A few minutes later she called.
"Where the FUCK have you been? I just called Sinai!"
She started cackling.
"Oh my god, I've been at Rik Rak [salon] for four hours! My back is
killing me, my cankles are out of control and my ass is completely
numb."
"You kept your beauty appt? Are you insane?"
"Well, yeah, but I have to look good for the hospital."
"You're fucking nuts, the salon is uncomfortable even when you're not about to pop!"

Meanwhile, godson Kobi, who at 20-odd mos, has begun talking a lot, is jabbering away in the background.

"Have I told you the lady and the fountain story?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Kobi, what does the lady at the fountain have?"
"Boobies?" the little booger said faintly.

She starts cracking up, encouraging him on, and she puts the phone to his mouth.

"Boobies, boobies, boobies, boobies!" Now Kobi's really having fun.

Meanwhile, at Rik Rak, Dana had gotten into her usual shenanigans. She'd never been there and I had been there when I worked for that psycho social-climbing charlatan in (fake) Chanel. So when Dana sat down with the hairdresser and was asked who recommended her, she decided not to mention my name. Instead the charlatan in Chanel popped into her head. But she could only see her face and totally blanked on both psycho's name and the name of the advertorial—er, magazine. Instead, another mag I wrote a story for popped into her head.

"Oh, it was the editor of Modern Luxury [Miami]," she told the stylist.
"Dana, the editor of ML is a man. And what the hell were you thinking anyway?"
"I dunno, my brain was all over the place and I couldn't remember the
psycho's name!"

Natch, the stylist runs over, grabs a copy of Miami magazine, and throws it into Dana's lap. The stylist starts flipping through the pages and gets to a photo of the publisher on the masthead.

"Is that her?"
"Oh my god, Dana. What the hell were you thinking? Oy!"
"Stephanie, I'm not kidding you, I'm just all over the place. I don't know what I was doing. So she points to this blonde woman in Modern Luxury—"
"Leslie Wolfson, the president."
"Yes! And I said, 'That's weird, I know a Leslie Wolfson, but that's not who I'm talking about.'"

Dana finally describes the psycho to the hairdresser and then the woman says the psycho's name. Lo and behold, minutes later Lesley Wolfson walks into the salon. And as Dana's leaving, the charlatan in Chanel is checking in. Brilliant.

Well, Dana hasn't popped yet which means I'm to report to the hospital at 9:30 a.m. I'm actually psyched to be going to the hospital this time. No chemo! Babies and cake from Epicure! And finally we'll find out the damn kid's name so we can all stop calling her Cunty.